


Sight of His Voice

by chewysugar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fluff, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Voice Kink, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23338351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Deprived of contact, Sam notices Dean's voice in a way he never really has before.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 51





	Sight of His Voice

**Author's Note:**

> I'm amazed (and also a trifle relieved) that I found it in myself to write this. If the last four years have been a continuous sucker punch, 2020 is proving to be the choke hold. 
> 
> I hope everyone is doing as well as they can under the circumstances.

Dean’s the kind of man whose soul shines through in his voice. Most folks don’t keep that in mind when they meet him. Usually the carapace occludes all else. The uninitiated see mischief gleaming in his eyes and think they've got him nutshelled. His cocky smile and the rugged body make it easier for people to write him off as just another tall drink of water. On the off-chance anyone does give a thought to his voice, it’s usually those who’ve been on the receiving end of dirty talk. 

But over the years, Sam has picked up on every subtlety and nuance. He’s really had no choice, More often than not, he’s taken it for granted. Now, though, in this world of extraordinary circumstances, he hears the sound of his brother as if seeing it.

Resonances, fluctuations, intonations and pitches flourish empty air like colors splashed across a canvas. He thinks of them in shades and hues—glowing amber for when Dean is relaxed; razor-sharp silver when he’s mad; dense green when he’s trying to conceal (this happens too often for Sam’s liking, but he can tell the forest from the trees) and sweet sky blue for the moments of happiness. When he laughs—really laughs, right from his belly and escaping every pore of his body for lack of mortality’s capability to contain—it hits Sam like a full on spectrum--like Mother Nature using every hue at her disposal to brighten up the humdrum world.

And then there’s the words that have their own pantone. Vibrant combinations that, when stroked into a sentence, make vacant space and simple conversation more technicolor than Joseph’s Dreamcoat.

“Son of a bitch,” is a tropical explosion of citrusy greens, yellows and oranges. 

“Aw, what the hell," Self-flagellating rust and bloody crimsons. 

“Pass me a cold one," the most Dean of all the Dean sounds. Ocean blue, sunset purple, green grass and mischievous gold. 

Of all, though, Sam’s learned to pick up those handful of words that bypass human spectrum. He’s sure they’re colors only the birds can see. He knows that they’re just as magnificent as the other elements of Dean Talk; but he can’t place them. All he knows is that they’re rare and radiant and wonderful. 

Words like, “I love you,” for starters. When he says it—really says—Sam sees nebulas and galaxies. A sort of alcohol spilled explosion of light and vibrancy that made the Early Humans believe the gods were up there, far away, instead of lurking on Earth and getting up to no good.

Other noises—carnal things—come to him in deep heliotropes and amaranths. Words like “yes,” “fuck,” and “so good.” These are the hues he sees when they're across from each other, bared and needing. He watches Dean, hand around his dick, fingers buried to the knuckle, teasing at the places within only Sam is privy to. All they can do now is observe. It would be maddening if it hadn't opened Sam up to this. Besides, once the wind turns, they’ll collide again. Sam’s sure he’ll forget about the colors, so he drinks them in with his eyes as much as his ears. 

Above all else—beyond these jeweled visions of the universe and the majesties of nature—there’s one word. It’s white, blinding like pure sun and precious as an opal. He never noticed it at first, but then when has he ever paid heed to true subtlety? 

“Sam...Sammy...Sasquatch... _Sa-am_...” 

His name. Apparently something happens between Dean’s head, heart and larynx when he speaks Sam’s name. He hears it now, and it stirs his very soul. Because how Dean speaks it is how he sees Sam—as that holy hue of hope. That memory of all things happy and good in a world beyond screwed up. 

Across from each other at the breakfast table—as far as apart as protocol says they’re meant to be—Dean prattles on. He’s chowing down on a bacon, egg and tomato, chased with coffee. Sam listens for the colors, smiling softly to himself. Then, when Dean grants himself a moment of silence to swallow his food, Sam puts his oar in.

“Dean? He wonders if Dean hears how Sam thinks and feels about him. He hopes so. 

Dean wipes his lips on the square of paper towel. 

“What’s up?” 

“Do me a favor?”

“Hm?” 

Sam’s eyes go a little bright. It’s an odd request to make but there’s not much else to do. “Say my name.” 

He expects a roll of the eyes. In the bright lights of day, Dean tries to avoid being too terribly lovey-dovey. But he must be in chipper spirits. He grins that little-boy smile. 

“Sam.” 

And goddamn if it isn't a beautiful sight to hear. 

**Author's Note:**

> Truly, I hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
